Some people can tell you exactly how long it’s been since they had sex, ate, or cleaned the tub. I can tell you exactly how long it’s been since I painted, or sang, or wrote a poem. 03/27 oils/last Friday acrylics. Last Thursday singing, and I’m about to take that video down, it’s embarrassing. Yesterday, the snippet capture—”I have searched my soul for a singular calling,/The only answer a feeling of falling.”
Sometimes, I think artists are just collectors of stray thoughts and pictures. I read the Bible every day, and it’s all in there. Every bit of poetry and philosophy. I’m reading the complete Shakespeare this year, and it’s all in there. Every story, all of modern psychology. People think artists do something new, but it’s impossible to do anything new. (Even that is Ecclesiastes.) We just curate the universal deluge in such a way that a face comes through the forest.
Anyway, the deluge got to me and I painted today despite not knowing where I’m sleeping tonight or where I’m going, when. Brighton is sunny and calm like that.
Now if I could just figure out how to sell oil paintings I make and store in random kind people’s homes around the world.
Or find more canvas.
